


Coalescence

by stickmarionette



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Canon - First Anime, FMA end of series spoilers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-21
Updated: 2010-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 17:17:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stickmarionette/pseuds/stickmarionette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coalescence: The union of diverse things into one body or form or group; the growing together of parts.  Post-series, Roy has found happiness, even if no one else understands.  <i>"That's why I still believe that I'll meet you again one day."</i></p><p>Written in 2005.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coalescence

**Author's Note:**

> Roy's monologue is of course taken from the Reflections Special. This is the first Roy/Ed fic I ever wrote.

He'd thought nothing of it, the first few times.

 

_"Is there something on my face, Lieutenant Breda?"_

"N-no, sir. You just look…different." A hasty glance at his face, then, "and I don't mean that. Just…content, I suppose. Happy."

 

Contentment, happiness. Strange, unfathomable words indeed, and stranger still, to show these things, on a face marred and covered. These horribly unfamiliar notions are somehow part of him now, creeping in with their stranglehold on his consciousness and making him a stranger to himself.

So Roy stares at his mirror every morning instead of shaving, stares and stares until the glass cracks and the reflection shatters to become something acceptable, something he can recognise.

A flash of gold out of the corner of his eye, and then:

"Hawkeye's going to think you're going senile if you keep doing that."

He holds still, he does not speak, he doesn't even _breathe_ because maybe ghosts, - phantoms, memories, whatever this is - are easily startled, maybe they disappear if you inhale the wrong way.

Roy knows that this is untrue, that this particular phantom _likes_ haunting him, likes coming back at the worst possible moments, and probably enjoys making him question his sanity.

It – Roy refuses to say he, because that will make it real – wraps strong arms around him, one warm and one cold, and the sensation is so achingly real that he almost looks down.

But he knows that he must not. He knows that is the one thing he must not do, the one thing that breaks unknown rules and makes the phantom melt away, slowly, as if reluctant.

"Worried, Fullmetal?" he murmurs, because no matter what it says about his mental state, no matter whether this is real or fake, he has missed this, missed _Edward_. Enough to play along, and convince himself that he isn't, in fact, going insane.

He is also careful to be quiet. Riza doesn't need to know anything.

 

_A flash of gold, and he can almost see the playful gleam that has to be in those gold eyes, the mocking smile that has to be curving those lips. Almost. His vision is filled with these imaginary, real things. _

"Our little secret, Colonel."

 

"Hardly. If you like nicking yourself while shaving, who am I to stop you?"

Startled, he looks into the mirror. Stares at his reflection until it reforms itself, becomes real. Stares at the shallow cuts on his face. Stares and stares at the empty space where Edward's reflection should be.

Somehow, sometime during this happy delirium, it has stopped being 'that thing' in his mind, and now he is helplessly acknowledging it, giving it his – his what? They had never gotten anywhere, in the end – his old _subordinate_'s name.

 

_"Are you real?"_

It snorts disdainfully.

"Spare me the existential bullshit. Besides," inhale, exhale, and he can feel its lips curving up into a smile against his back, the warm breath as it sighs, "do you really care?"

Of course he doesn't. This is too good to be true, tailored as it is to erase his every regret and save him from the crippling weight of speculations and guilt. In the end, he believes in it, just because of that. It's just easier this way.

And yet, the rational part of his mind, the one part that's always calculating, weighing the usefulness of any situation, uncaring of fickle things like feelings and sanity – the part he always managed to ignore when it came to Edward, the part he now detests with a passion, because in the end, what good had it done? – informs him helpfully that it had not answered his question.

_He ignores that, too._

 

The razor is suddenly pried out of his hand, and he lets Edward guide it with dexterous hands, doesn't flinch when it comes to rest at the juncture of neck and throat.

It laughs at him, but the sound is achingly familiar and it sets something loose in his chest, something that has been wound tight for too long, so he lets it go.

"You're so trusting. That's not like the bastard Colonel I know."

It occurs to him that he is mindlessly indulgent of this creature, in a way that he never was of Edward, in a way he has never _allowed_ himself with the real Edward.

But then, Edward had never touched him with anything like affection, the way it does.

 

_He shivers as its nails rake a path down his back, and he is rewarded with the feel of that smile, curved into his back. He longs to run his finger along those soft lips, feel the corners turned up almost delicately, scimitar-like._

Edward was never so still in life. But then, he had never known Edward in this way, never allowed himself anything more than their sniping, hurtful working relationship, based on mutual ambition, blackmail and an honest appreciation of the other's talent.

Such beginnings are rarely the basis for a healthy relationship. He knows this, and he suspects that Edward kne-knows it too. The boy was always too perceptive for his own good.

It is raining sucking, biting kisses down his spine, and he bites down on a gasp – it wouldn't do to attract attention, not like this. There is an unusual urgency to the creature's actions, and Roy is stuck suddenly by the unpleasant suspicion that it is desperately attempting to stifle the urge to laugh. He doesn't turn, nor does he tell it to stop.

His back stiffens at the thought, though, and the kisses stop anyway.

"What's wrong?" it asks, chuckling.

"I'm glad you find the situation amusing."

At least it never laughs outright. The chuckles stop, too, and he can feel soft hair swishing against his back as the creature tilts his head in contemplation.

"I thought you were happy…?" it asks, finally, quiet and serious.

He is, and up until now he'd thought the reason to be his own secret. But it would explain the laughter.

Pleased, content, and probably insane because after all, he is _hallucinating_ –

 

But Roy knows, now, even as he feels his now-smooth jaw with trembling fingers and sees the evidence of the creature's physical presence –

Evidence of how far he's cracked, some would say. Riza would probably give him that sad look again, and then the walls would go up behind her beautiful eyes. She always knew.

And yet, he cannot deny himself in this, because it has bought him revelation –

"You're not dead, you're alive…"

A revelation that feels like the truth, _has_ to be the truth –

"You merely left on a journey."

Roy doesn't turn to face Edward, but he doesn't have to – he can almost see the amused and tolerant expression on the young man's face.

"Maybe I did."

He holds still, he does not speak, he doesn't even _breathe_ as the phantom fades away, but this time he is not afraid of its disappearance. It has gone and will probably never return, having served its purpose.

Roy doesn't care. The tremors running through him are elation, the absolute joy of revelation.

 

_"You're insane, you know." _

The creature is biting hard enough to leave marks, and even through the overwhelming lure of heady, electric sensation Roy knows that he'll be grateful for it later. He will stare at the crimson stains and laugh, because it will be real, proof that the conversation took place, proof that he isn't just suffering blissfully in a nightmare of his own making. Even if no one else will be able to see what he sees, it will be nice to have this, just for himself.

The impulse is irresistible, so he asks. "He's alive, isn't he?"

That earns him a particularly hard bite, more pain than pleasure, like a silence admonishment. He doesn't wince.

There's the swish of soft hair against his spine, and then, quietly, reproachfully, "How can you believe anything else?"

 

\---

"That's why I still believe that I'll meet you again one day."

\---

 

_finis_


End file.
